Latest news with #GRWM
CairoScene
13-06-2025
- Entertainment
- CairoScene
This Content Creator Brings Classical Arabic Poetry to the Digital Age
This Content Creator Brings Classical Arabic Poetry to the Digital Age At the intersection of heritage and the algorithm, one creator is proving that classical Arabic poetry truly is timeless. Between the soft clink of rings and the mundane rhythm of daily errands, content creator Hala is reviving classical Arabic poetry over social media. Her videos, set to the backdrop of car rides and gentle routines, unspool the linguistic richness of Qabbani and Al-Mutanabbi with a modern cadence, reframing classical verse for a generation raised on scrolls and swipes. As the eldest daughter in an Arab household in the US, Hala's first encounters with classical Arabic weren't through textbooks, but through the melismatic qasidas of singers like Nagat Al Saghira. 'My dad would play them on roadtrips,' Hala tells CairoScene. 'The songs are all super long, the shortest is probably 40 minutes. I was so curious: 'What are they saying?' 'What does it mean?' I would watch him being moved by the music, and I would think: 'She's been singing for forty minutes, how are you still enjoying this?''That curiosity continued to be cultivated by her father, whose quizzes on the meaning and lectures on the pronunciation of classical Arabic fostered a love for classic Arab music, and the verses that came before. Tracing this isnad of classical Arabic, from Pre-Islamic to Nizar Qabbani to Nagat Al Saghira's music, Hala found a new type of entertainment, one that felt rewarding as well-rooted. 'I would recite to my computer and film the poems,' Hala recalls. 'But I never thought I was reciting them correctly, nor that anyone would care.' Then, in August 2024, she posted a casual video - putting on rings, reciting a verse - and it went viral. The clip resonated with a diasporic audience estranged from the linguistic depth and nuance of their language. Go to the comments on any video and you'll find the same thing: 'I'm fluent in Arabic but not in this type of Arabic.' Through these videos, Hala taps into a collective gap in knowledge, offering her audience a piece of heritage that never seemed accessible. 'Poetry is such a deep, intricate form of language,' Hala explains. 'Especially Arabic. Arabic contains such a multitude of words and synonyms for so many things. For people who grew up in the West, they don't understand all the meanings, they didn't grow up around the metaphors and structures exhibited in classical poetry.' Her TikTok playlist, Fikra w Khatira, feels less like a short-form content series and more like a digital majlis. A modern-day salon where the esoteric complexity of Al-Mutanabbi is softened by bilingual subtitles, and the uvular crack of a qaf feels instinctual over the backdrop of a GRWM. In this unlikely setting, Hala has carved out an archive and a classroom where poetry is no longer distant or impenetrable. Asked whether she approves of the moniker 'The Poetry Girl', she laughs: 'What else do I want to get famous for? The Get Ready With Me Girl?! I like being 'The Poetry Girl',' Hala asserts. 'I have tried different ways of storytelling, but poetry touches my heart in a particular way, and it resonates with others too.' Hala's page isn't just a balm for the Arab diaspora; it stands as an advocate for poetic expression. A reminder that poetry, especially in Arabic, is an inimitable means of emotional translation, articulation, and healing. 'I speak three languages,' Hala says. 'None of them describe the process of emotions that a human goes through in the way Arabic does. There are twelve stages of love, twelve ways to describe love: from yearning to delight.' What Hala offers, ultimately, is connection. The same way her father once shared music and meaning on road trips, she now shares verse with strangers. And in her hands - and voice - Arabic poetry, once perceived as lofty and opaque, finds a new intimacy. Whether she is reciting Al-Mutanabbi from the driver's seat, or translating taboo poems by Qabbani in a GRWM, her content doesn't dilute the material, it democratises it.
Buzz Feed
13-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Buzz Feed
The Dark Truth Behind This Viral Social Media Trend
It started as a casual interest. Scrolling Instagram, I'd stop to watch some celebrity or influencer put on makeup. They'd have their products lined up on the bathroom counter and perch their phone against the mirror — that way, they're facing the camera as they trace each eye with liner, slick on lipstick, and narrate application techniques. The viewer and the mirror become one, and the line between audience and self blurs. Then it turned into a bedtime ritual. After crawling under the sheets and shutting off the light, I'd pull my phone close to my face, open YouTube, and search for a 'Get Ready With Me' video. The Vogue ones were my favorite. They'd usually feature a young actress — Sydney Sweeney, Hailee Steinfeld, or the latest Bridgerton lead — in her bathroom, dripping alluring serums onto her forehead, applying soppy dabs of moisturizer to her neck and cheeks, and swiping on an invisible SPF. Then, she'd add a touch of foundation, apply a cream eyeshadow with her finger, brush bronzer along her jawline, and glide a highlighter stick above her cheekbones. Vogue would link to the products the celebrities used underneath the videos, and sometimes I'd click through them: $80 for 0.5 ounces of a vitamin C serum, $115 for an eye cream, $73 for a collection of chemicals I'd never heard of. Once I opened all the links, I'd usually come to the realization I didn't need any of the products and quickly close each tab. I'll admit I wasn't always successful. Then I'd shut off my phone and try to sleep, hoping to have beautiful dreams. 'I am dreadfully tired of my life,' I wrote in my journal in February 2022. I was 26 and working as a digital editor at a news outlet in Austin. Since the start of the pandemic, my weekdays had consisted of sitting at home in front of my computer for nine hours straight, answering Slack messages and engaging with the world's latest tragedies: COVID-19 deaths, mass shootings, the ever-increasing swirl of misinformation. And then I would make dinner, lose myself in another screen, and try to sleep. Perhaps I was initially drawn to 'Get Ready With Me,' or GRWM videos — a trend that has flooded practically every social media platform in recent years — because I could live vicariously through them. TikTok I'd imagine myself putting on makeup, even though I'd been barefaced for weeks. I'd imagine myself as someone who had places to go, who planned to be seen, even though I was going days without leaving my apartment. Usually, the videos' protagonists filmed themselves in cute bathrooms in sunlight-filled studio apartments or fancy French hotel rooms, and I'd imagine they were going to spend the day strolling down boulevards, drinking wine at lunch, and reading books in parks under the sun. The women in these videos exuded a confidence I admired. They knew exactly what products worked for them, which ones they wanted to define themselves by. 'Regardless of how high-maintenance or low-maintenance a woman is, every single woman is her own expert,' Glossier founder Emily Weiss says about beauty routines in the 2023 book Glossy: Ambition, Beauty, and the Inside Story of Emily Weiss's Glossier. Before founding the billion-dollar beauty company, Weiss started a blog in 2010 called Into the Gloss, where she interviewed celebrities about their favorite beauty and skincare products. It was essentially the first iteration of the GRWM phenomenon. The blog marked a pivotal moment for beauty culture, according to Glossy author Marisa Meltzer. Weiss had recognized 'the power of personal affiliation, of embracing and monetizing the idea that this-is-what-I-use is deeply linked to this-is-who-I-am.' I didn't know who I was. But these women appeared to. And that fed into a hope the beauty industry had been selling me for years: that maybe figuring out who I am is just a matter of finding the right products. I started wearing makeup in high school, the same age my older sister had been allowed to wear it. When my mom took me to Ulta the summer before my freshman year, and I sat at the Clinique counter as a woman matched eyeshadow duos to my complexion, it felt like a rite of passage. Strawberry Fudge, she recommended, a light pink shade for the lid and dark brown for the crease. I maintained the same drug-store version of that Clinique routine for years. I wore it religiously, not because I had any real passion for it, but because I thought it was a thing girls were supposed to do. An expert had even shown me. Who was I to stray? Then in college, I studied abroad with a girl who didn't wear makeup. She was kind and adventurous and knew how to be friends with everyone she met. One weekend, a group of us was getting ready for a night out. She asked to borrow someone's mascara. I wondered aloud why she didn't have any. 'I ran out a while ago and just never got around to buying more,' she said. Fascinating. To me, running out of mascara was like running out of an essential, like toothpaste or shampoo. To this cool, nice girl, it was an afterthought. I wanted to emulate her nonchalance. After that, I started wearing makeup less. I went to class without mascara, stopped replacing eyeshadow palettes, and went on dates with little more than moisturizer on my face. I took pleasure in being the kind of girl who didn't wear makeup. When I did put it on, to attend parties or go to internship interviews, I worried it looked like I was trying too hard. It didn't help that I was dating a guy who egged on this insecurity. He didn't seem to care that I rarely wore makeup around him, but one night I was heading to a friend's graduation party. He was in my room, hanging out while I got ready. I started swiping mascara on my lashes and putting powder on my face. 'Why do you wear makeup for other people but not me?' he asked. I didn't know what to say. I mumbled something about wanting to look nice for my friends. They'd all be dressed up. 'It feels like you want other guys to notice you or something.' The thought hadn't crossed my mind. I reassured him I wasn't trying to attract other people. Looking back, I can see his comments were rooted in insecurities that my 20-year-old self was not equipped to handle. But in the moment, I let the words sink in. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was a vain person. Another night, I was getting ready to see his band perform at a house party. I put makeup on, slipped into my favorite jean jacket, and examined myself in the mirror. Why did I want to wear makeup tonight, I wondered. Was it too much? In a huff, I ran over to the sink and splashed water on my face. Dark water droplets fell toward the drain until the mascara and eyeliner were washed away. Then I felt even sillier, having spent so much time trying to appear chill and unbothered, two things I clearly was not. After graduation, I started working my first grown-up job, and I was eager to dress the part. Makeup again became a thoughtless habit. I'd put on eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, and powder before going to the office and dutifully removed it all each night. My college relationship petered out, and, slowly, the self-conscious voice in my head did too. When the pandemic hit a year later, I stopped going to the office and stopped putting on makeup altogether. My office became my kitchen. Meetings became Zoom calls. Work clothes became sweatpants and T-shirts. As the months went on, the monotony and anxiety that filled daily life morphed into a low-level depression. I craved distraction. A dopamine hit. A place to rest my mind that wasn't steeped in doom and gloom. I don't remember what came first: the desire to perfect myself or the videos that showed me how. 'I'm pretty sure I'm the person I see most now,' I joked to my friend one day. Living alone during the pandemic, I had endless time to stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and no one around to make me self-conscious of my self-obsession. Plus, on every Zoom call and every FaceTime happy hour with friends, there I was, my face in a box in the corner. I began to fixate on my skin. Was I getting dark circles? Had those lines on my forehead always been there? For every problem I encountered, Instagram had a solution. I could try the moisturizer that Jeanne Damas used or watch a video of a stranger to learn how to apply concealer under my eyes. I started ordering skincare products online. Kiehl's avocado eye cream and hyaluronic acid. Then, I moved on to makeup. Glossier skin tints and cream blushes. Rarely did I have anywhere to wear them. But the buying was entertainment enough. It's no wonder to me why the skincare industry boomed during the COVID years. It's likely the same reason lipstick sales go up during recessions: When things get tough, we allow ourselves little indulgences to get through. Beauty brands milked that tendency, employing influencers to hawk shiny bottles on every corner of social media, the place we go to remove ourselves from the difficulties of the present. These splurges became a way to connect to beauty in an increasingly ugly world. There was a part of me that craved these influencers' lives. I wanted their world, as writer Sheila Heti says, 'to be mine by putting it in a cart on the internet, and buying it, and having it arrive at my door, and unpacking it, and knowing it's mine and no one else's.' Recently, we've seen tween girls bombarding Sephora, eager to add a new Drunk Elephant product to their skincare ritual or a Summer Friday lip gloss to their makeup collection. We gawk and watch in awe when their own GRWM videos break into our algorithms. But it makes sense to me. Young girls love to play dress-up, to cosplay the adult women they hope to one day be. When I was little, I decorated my room with Eiffel Towers and envisioned the 20-something version of me living in an apartment in Paris with vines growing over the balcony. I would be a writer who wore long skirts and cut her hair short and sipped coffee in outdoor cafes. A belief grew in me that when I was older, I would no longer feel the uncertainty of being young. I awaited the day I would be like the women I saw in movies, when I would know exactly who I was and what I was doing, and my clothes and face would always feel beautiful, and I would stop thinking so damn much. I wouldn't question where my life was going. I could just live it. Instead, there I was in my 20s, still fantasizing about the millions of directions my life could take. I'd research different ways to be online. How to go to grad school. How to live abroad. How to move to New York. How to achieve the perfect 'no-makeup makeup' look. And I'd live in those possibilities for a while. It is normal to be young and to try on different versions of yourself. Indulging in GRWM videos felt like an instantaneous way to do that. But the proliferation of this content — and our appetite for it — highlights what I fear is a growing belief that the most important part of living is appearing. That what makes us who we are is how we look, not how we feel. Buying milky cleansers, creamy moisturizers, and shiny lip glosses didn't bring me closer to the person I wanted to be. It wasn't until I took real steps to address my mental health that my life meaningfully began to change. For one, I found a therapist who helped me believe my desires were valid. She helped me break down my life goals into manageable steps. I began to feel I was brave enough to do things like quit my job and move to a new city if I really wanted to. And I did. There are still times I succumb to Instagram beauty reels. I'll find myself 20 seconds into a video of a gorgeous woman applying a new blush or a coppery eyeshadow. I try to remind myself that these are just objects. Rarely are such things transformative. What I really crave is connection. Romance. Experiences that will crack open new neural pathways in my brain, remind me I am alive. Great art brings me that: books, movies, the opera. A new city to explore. Friends who bare their souls. A gorgeous sunset. Over the last year, I've made an effort to have more of these things in my life. There is nothing inherently wrong with finding aesthetic ways to boost your confidence. But these videos encourage us to think there is some combination of products out there that will encapsulate the elusive, ever-changing thing that is the self. It's an alluring, futile quest. One in which we will always struggle — always try, always fail, always buy. I turned 29 last year. I still don't know exactly who I am. But I no longer obsess over it so much. For now, I'm trying to be a person who spends less time watching other people, and more time walking through the world myself.
Buzz Feed
12-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Buzz Feed
Nara Smith On Why She's Okay With 4 Kids At A Young Age
I'm sure you've heard of model and influencer Nara Smith. The social media star has over 11 million followers on TikTok, and she's known for slice of life, aka "tradwife" content, with her seductive ASMR voiceovers. Nara, who's currently 23 years old, is expecting her fourth child with model and influencer Lucky Blue Smith, 27, and she's online defending her choice to have so many kids at her age. In a June 11 GRWM video, Nara answered a few Q&A questions from her followers, one in particular addressing why she and Lucky chose to have so many kids. "No, I'm not having this many kids because I'm Mormon," Nara explained. "I'm not Mormon. I just always wanted to be a young mom and do everything while I was really young. And I think that's just a personal preference for me." Nara married Lucky when she was only 20 years old, but explained that how she lived in her teens prepared her for her life as a mother at her current age. "I did a lot of the things that people in their 20s do when I was a teenager," Nara said. "So now, I felt like I was ready to start a new chapter and do other things, which is being a mom. And I love being a mom and making that choice." Nara and Lucky have three children: Rumble Honey, 4, Slim Easy, 3, and Whimsy Lou, 14 months, and now they're expecting another. In the video, Nara explained that she and Lucky didn't plan on having another kid after Whimsy Lou. "This was a surprise baby," she said. Nara said she was six months pregnant (noting that she used movie magic to conceal her tummy in her recent content) and shared why she waited to share the news. "I waited to share for as long as I feel like I could because I knew that people were going to have all kinds of opinions. And me personally, I had to get used to the idea as well of having another kid since I'm mentally prepped to be done after Whimsy." Having multiple children before her 24th birthday works for Nara and her husband because they've got the "tag-teaming" down pat. "Lucky and I are really good at tag-teaming," she said. "We tag-team and really figure out our work schedules and what we have to do. And then the other person takes care of the kids. Then when we're lucky, family come and help out when we're both traveling or when it's too much, and the workload is piling up. So, we're kind of managing it like that." "No, I don't have a nanny. No I don't have a whole team helping me. It's just me, my husband and any family that's available to help," she continued. Nara added that she's "excited" and that they know the gender but won't announce it until the baby is born. Like the three children before, she plans to have an at-home birth. "All in all, this has been my easiest pregnancy so far. So adjusting this time around has been so much easier for me." In my opinion, having four kids under 5 years old before you're even 24 is a flex because I can't even take care of two succulents for a month, and I'm twice her age. Congratulations to Nara and Lucky!
Cosmopolitan
04-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Cosmopolitan
Who Is Wendy Ortiz? Why Fans Are Begging Kylie Jenner to Collab with Her
Kylie Jenner's comment sections can be a dark and divisive space. It's where you'll find debates about what work she's gotten done, droves of naysayers policing her mothering style, and maybe even some calls to eat the rich. But as of late, on Kylie's TikTok, you'll also find a pretty unified front. A baffling one at that. Because it's where thousands of users are asking, nay, begging, for Kylie to recognize someone by the name of Wendy Ortiz. The requests take the shape of anything from "WENDY ORTIZ COLLAB QUEEN" to the slightly less aggressive "Wendy Ortiz X Kylie Jenner collab Would EAT." The tireless calls are being made on Kylie's GRWM videos, her thirst traps, and even her well-intentioned promos for new Kylie Cosmetics foundation brushes. The Wendy Ortiz hive will not let Kylie rest. If the legion of shooters she's got littered in Kylie's comments weren't already an indication, let it be known that Wendy is no random. In short, she's 21 years old, a Scorpio, and has over 3.7 million followers on TikTok. She originally came to slight fame in 2018 through the YouTube channel she shared with her twin sister, called Evelyn and Wendolyn, but her solo TikTok blew up in 2023. It's where she posts everything from dance videos to comedy skits to clips of her 2-year-old daughter, Valentina (Wendy had her in 2023 with her on-again, off-again partner, Carlos). But recently, Valentina has set her sights on a whole other platform, Twitch. Her following on there is a bit smaller (678k), but she was one of the more popular students at Kai Cenat's recent Streamer University project, and since then has hosted a Streamer University recap livestream and some Q&As on Twitch. The Kylie Jenner of it all began when, during one of her streams, Wendy decided to shoot her shot and vocalize that her dream collab would be with the makeup mogul. Now, to be clear, by "collab," Wendy doesn't mean join forces on a cosmetic product or campaign, but instead just having Kylie join her on one of her streams. A harmless ask! But Wendy's fans, the "Winions" (a stan name deserving of a trademark), heard this dream and decided it was their mission to make it a reality. Hence their intense presence in the comments of everything Kylie posts, which some have understandably grown a little tired of. "Leave this woman alone…. she's not collabing with a tiktoker," wrote one worn down Kylie follower. "When you say collab, what are you guys referring to just sitting in front of a camera together? lol" asks another. (A genuinely valid question.) Now according to some eagle-eyed Winions (I'm obsessed with this stan name and intend to say it as much as possible) their calls might posisbly have been heard. Earlier this week on a stream, Wendy was left astonished by a text she'd received, which the Winons took to mean that Wendy had finally received contact from Kylie herself. Now, any word from Kylie herself about the phenomenon is yet to come. But I can't imagine she can keep posting business as usual for very long. The Winions have shown no sign of letting up.
Scottish Sun
04-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Scottish Sun
TikTok star Avery Woods wears touching tribute to friend Emilie Kiser's late son Trigg, 3, after tragic drowning
Her friends and followers were quick to spot the tribute REMEMBERING HIM TikTok star Avery Woods wears touching tribute to friend Emilie Kiser's late son Trigg, 3, after tragic drowning Click to share on X/Twitter (Opens in new window) Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) A TIKTOK star has worn a touching tribute to fellow influencer Emilie Kiser's son, who died in a tragic drowning accident. Avery Woods made a small but moving gesture as a show of support for her friend during the difficult time. 3 TikTok star Avery Woods wears touching tribute to friend Emilie Kiser's late son Trigg Credit: TikTok 3 Police say the 3-year-old boy died from his injuries days after he was pulled from a backyard pool Credit: Instagram 3 Emilie has gone silent on social media as her family mourns the tragic loss Credit: TikTok Emilie Kiser's 3-year-old son Trigg sadly died after being rescued from a pool in their back yard on May 12. He was rushed to hospital where he would spend nearly a week fighting for his life before he tragically passed away. The Arizona based influencer has seen floods of tributes and words of comfort from her fans in video comments since the heartbreaking day. But Avery chose to offer her tributes in a more subtle manner. read more on the us sun MAR-A-LAGO CREEP Intruder storms Trump resort 'looking to MARRY Don's teen granddaughter' During a TikTok video on June 2, she wore a small pendant with the name Trigg inscribed on it. The touching gesture came in a get ready with me (GRWM) video captioned: "Been awhile since I put makeup on so thought I'd get ready for our anniversary, missed you." Her friends and followers were quick to spot the tribute. Influencer Samantha Jo commented "so beyond glad she has you, I love you." Another said "you are such a good friend Avery." Emilie has gone silent on social media as her family mourns the tragic loss. The 26-year-old also has a 2-month-old Theodore with husband Brady Kiser. Her lawyer wrote in a lawsuit: "Emilie is going through a parent's worst nightmare right now. "She lost her young son." The lawsuit was filed against public offices to keep details of the child's death private. "Emilie is trying her best to be there for her surviving son, two-month-old Theodore," it continues. "But every day is a battle." The TikToker's stepbrother Nick Espinosa has also broken his silence about the sudden loss. He posted a video of him driving with a voiceover - that he made private but someone later reposted, according to People. The audio says: "Life will always throw you a curveball." "One day everything feels aligned. "You're making progress, chasing purpose, moving forward. "Then just like that, everything changes."
